


Epilogue

by InvincibleRodent



Series: Raymond Trevelyan [7]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Domestic Bliss, Fluff, Fluff without Plot, M/M, Post-Game(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-05
Updated: 2015-09-05
Packaged: 2018-04-19 04:45:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4733243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InvincibleRodent/pseuds/InvincibleRodent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set between the end of the main game and the Trespasser DLC- some grossly domestic fluff without plot.</p><p>(Minor suggestions of sexual themes- as sexual as an average lazy morning with your significant other gets.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Epilogue

“I am hopeful,

though not full of hope,

and the only reason I don't believe in happy endings

is because I don't believe in endings.”

_― Edward Abbey_

 

It is a morning much like any other -hazy and bright, a morning that drapes itself over the Frostbacks and makes the snow gleam like planes of glass.  
Except this one brings no bustle from the gardens.

This morning is eerily quiet, not even a servant girl stirs- which would be a cause for concern, if Skyhold wasn’t wrestling with a massive, collective hangover.

Dorian's arm searches blindly for its usual spot, and he gives a nondescript grunt of displeasure when his fingers only find cold sheets where his amatus’ waist should be. He cracks a steel eye open just a fraction, and squints at the large shadow before him- a broad back blocks those pesky early morning beams from his face, and he struggles to make out its contours.

Raymond peeks over his shoulder, and his lips curve into a bright smile. “I’m sorry,” he says, uncharacteristically -dare he say _suspiciously_ \- awake for the hour. “Did I wake you?”

Dorian rubs a bleary eye with his fist, and lets out a long yawn as response, not even bothering to cover his mouth. The soft rustle of paper drags what little attention his groggy mind can conjure up to the other man’s lap. There lies a stack of parchment, spread out over his knees and folded legs like duff.

He stuffs the unused pillow under his head with a groan, forcing his eyes to search for the offending celestial body behind the tatters of clouds littering the pastel sky- It should be about eight bells into the day, he assumes.

“What has you awake at such an ungodly hour, amatus?" Dorian mumbles sleepily, his voice low and raspy from the mild hangover he himself is nursing, as he discovers with mild annoyance. His tongue feels much like a dish sponge nestled in his cheek, and his pulse is thumping sluggishly in his ears- which, he notes bitterly, could mean that collecting his memories from last night might prove to be a bit more of a challenge than he would like.

He recalls that officially, last night’s celebrations ended just around the time the indigo of the night sky started adopting a pinkish hue; not long _after_ a somewhat giggly Leliana escorted a _most definitely_ tipsy Josephine to the Inner Circle’s quarters, and not long _before_ the Iron Bull drifted to a noisy sleep, with his face snug in the crook of his elbow and someone’s smalls perched precariously on one of his horns.

That was the moment he and the hero of the hour had chosen to retire as well, garnering a fair bit more attention than it would have been appropriate, but frankly, Dorian couldn’t find one fiber in his body that still cared about being _appropriate_ of all things. Having watched his lover stumble out of yet another set of ruins covered in blood equal parts his own and another’s -at least he guessed- gave him the right to be as inappropriate as he saw fit. Let it be charging at the man and crashing into him with only slightly less force than a druffalo stampede and kissing him senseless or pushing him up the stairs to their quarters while trying to coordinate walking, kissing, and grasping for his ass with minimal success, those who could find problem with that could also find his complex opinion right in his breeches.

He frowns, as the rest of it seems more a blur than any coherent sequence of events.

He distinctly recalls the soft _“oof”_ Ray let out when his back hit the heavy oak door, and their desperate fumbling with the lock... That is, until Dorian decided that he had waited long enough and busted the door clean open with a barely focused mind blast.

He also remembers letting out an undignified and decidedly mortifying squeaking noise -one he would later deny to his dying breath-, when Ray ducked down and scooped up Dorian’s legs to hoist them around his hips with unsettling ease, and the way they laughed into the fervent crush of their lips as he trudged across the room, as if the mage hanging onto him with more limbs than he _had_ weighed no more than an armful of pillows.

Not to mention the squawk that escaped his lungs - _Maker, what a myriad of embarrassing noises_ \- when he was thrown onto the offensively _Orlesian_ bed with enough momentum to rattle his teeth, and make the abused springs groan under their combined weight. Or the subsequent racket that lead to the two laying sprawled out atop each other, covered in more than just a sheen of sweat.

Dorian briefly draws the Veil around himself to dull the wicked headache forming behind his eyes.

“I was reviewing some reports. From Cullen.” Ray says, distracted. “The losses we suffered at the Temple of Sacred Ashes weren’t too severe, but the shock troops made it back a few hours ago, and it seems--...” Dorian lets loose another long, drawn out yawn as he pulls himself back from the Fade, inch by inch, his cheek squished against his own bicep. Ray peeks back over his shoulder again.

Catching the atypically dull look on his lover’s face, his voice immediately softens, and a small, private smile curls his lips. “There is still much to be done.” he sums up with a grimace.

Ray gathers the loose leaves into a neat stack, and Dorian tries not to frown at it. While there isn’t much clarity in his memories from last night, he does distinctly remember everything of the sort being out of reach, scattered on the floor or under the bed... He knows that, as he himself was the one who swept everything off the nightstand, when his amatus chose the wrong moment (or the right one, that is entirely dependent on one’s perception) to swallow around his length and curl his fingers _just so_ at the same time.

He briefly wonders if that means a messenger sauntered in in the middle of the night, just to drop a stack of reports on their heads (which is insulting, but also mildly embarrassing, given their general state of undress), or if the Inquisitor somehow managed to untangle himself from the octopus-like embrace they ended up falling asleep in, take the reports, and nestle himself back in without Dorian noticing (which is just plain embarrassing, there is no putting it otherwise)- both prospects leave a bad taste in his mouth that goes beyond the acerbic dryness of alcohol.

He’s unsure when exactly he grew so used to having his Inquisitor’s undivided attention (or when he started referring to the man as _his_ Inquisitor in his inner monologue for that matter) that he started to resent the moments he’s deprived of it. Dorian swallows his mild displeasure and pushes the irksome thought back to where it came form.

“How oddly diligent of you.” he sighs finally, and rolls lazily onto his back. As he stretches his limbs over his head, he allows the covers to slip below his navel, enjoying the pleasant, dull ache as his joints crack softly. Without even looking, Ray lays a warm hand on the taut stomach, his fingers toying absently with the neat trail of dark curls there.

“I wonder what happened to that delightful young man who used to hide in the library, flirting with me to escape paperwork.” Dorian’s lips twitch into a lazy smile at the ticklish sensation. “He was quite sweet, as I recall.”

“Hey, I only used to do that between meetings. Besides, I’ve little need to prioritize like that anymore.” Ray's voice is soft; a lopsided, affectionate smile tinting his words. “With any luck, the Inquisition will soon stop eating up all my time. And then? I'm all yours.”

Dorian gives a light snort and draws his hands back down behind his head. “Quaint. Have you even gone to sleep at all?”

“No, not really. Just been watching you drool on me.”

“I don’t _drool._ ”

“You do, and it’s adorable.”

“Lies and slander.”

“Tell that to my soaked pillow.”

Dorian crinkles his nose, and a few seconds of comfortable silence fills the room until Ray speaks again; the part of his expression not hidden by his own shoulder pensive, somber. “I still can’t quite believe it’s over.”

“Me neither.” Dorian pauses. He wiggles further down between the sheets, throwing an arm around Ray’s waist. His forehead rests just against the jut of a hipbone, and an arm immediately shifts out from between their bodies to wrap itself around him in a loose embrace. “As you were standing up there...” he mutters into the cotton pooling around the man’s waist “I thought- _‘there he is, the hero of all Thedas. The man who saved us all, as well as the day.’_ I was proud of you, amatus.”

“You should have come up there with me.” Ray's brows knit into a slight frown. “You were with me every step of the way; it was as much your victory as it was mine.”

“Don’t be silly. As pleasant a sight as I am, the people wanted to see their triumphant leader, not his pet Vint. Shocking, I know. ”

“You still think they think so little of you?”

“Well, less so after the ten rounds of drinks I was offered at the banquet-,” Dorian gives a wry smirk as the hands dance away from his nape. “-but I would bet good coin it’s not far from the truth.”

That being said, Dorian has to admit, their reception was still about as far from what he had expected as it could get. In fact, things were looking a thousand times brighter than they did in his expectations, but he knew better than to get complacent. After all, surpassing his predictions wasn’t quite an accomplishment, given that he had fully expected the both of them to die a heroic death, but that thought is reduced to an annoying little voice in the back of his mind. He tilts his head back instead as warm fingers trace his jawline.

“I’m glad you decided to stay.” Ray says quietly, barely a trace of the jesting tone in his voice. “At least for a while.”

“Yes, yes, it was quite the sacrifice. How ever shall I cope with being heralded as a blessed hero to at least three different nations.”

“Have you changed your mind about my going with you, too?”

The question hangs in the air for a handful of seconds before Ray huffs out a long breath through his nose, and a shadow of a smile crosses his face.

“I’ve been thinking.” he says finally “It occurs to me that I never thanked you. For all that you have done.”

“I’m appalled. Amatus, I thought you’d have realized by now-” Dorian arches into the touch of the fingers skittering up and down the expanse of his back. “I would follow you into the Void and back -as I _have_ \- with only mild complaining.”

“ _That’s_ what you call mild?”

“Ass.” Dorian gives a light punch, or more like a suggestion of one, to Ray’s ribs, and peels the arm from around his shoulders to roll onto his back with a grin. “I could have done much worse, I’ll have you know.” he opens his arms, inviting. “Come here.”

With a tired smile -a mere imitation, a poor simulacrum of the grin stretched across his lover’s face- Ray sets the stack of reports on the bedside table, and falls back obediently, his legs unfurling from under him as he rolls over to rest his forearms on each side of Dorian’s torso; his chin is perched on the middle of the man’s chest.

Dorian takes just a moment to study his lover’s features- his forehead finally free of worry lines, the dusting of a tired purple just under his eyes that tell the tale of many a sleepless night, the slight gauntness of his cheeks where once there was juvenile roundness. A young face stained, marked by months and months of constant worry and responsibilities; features both boyish and mature illuminated by the warm orange glow of the morning, and the mage enjoys the pleasant licks of pride blooming in his chest when those chapped lips finally drag into a genuine smile.

The covers all but slip straight to the floor as Ray slowly wiggles towards the foot of the bed, his hands snug under the mage’s ribs, molding the familiar shapes. His nose presses into sleep-warm, damp skin still smelling of smoke, alcohol and lovemaking.

Ray marvels, as he had countless times, at just how natural it all feels- the smoothness of somewhat clammy skin tasting of last night against his lips, the day old stubble on both their faces, and the familiar sensation of elegant fingers threading themselves into his hair, gently working through the knots... A leg shifts between pliant thighs, and Ray's eyes narrow in amusement as he feels the mage's morning swell brush against his hip.

Dorian chuckles darkly. “Have you always been this heavy?”

Ray gives the nipple right in front of his face a playful nibble, almost as a warning, and stays there. “You didn’t seem to mind before.” he muses.

 _As natural, as perfect, as if the Maker himself had dreamt it into existence,_ he thinks. As if the Maker had molded his arms to fit around this man just perfectly.

Dare he say, as if it was meant to be. He feels his ears flush at the thought, and instead of speaking, he pushes himself back up onto his elbows to meet Dorian’s eye.

“Good morning, by the way.” the mage says.

“And to you too.”

The hand in Ray’s hair now combs through in broad, unobstructed strokes, smoothing pesky shorter tresses back out of his forehead, and he leans happily into the touch, eyes sliding shut in bliss. Dorian gives a hardly noticeable little frown at the scars old and new that litter the other’s shoulders, and sluggish fingers come up to trace them- threads of soothing magic dull the redness.

“I would kiss you, but I wouldn’t want to subject you to my dreadful morning breath.” he smirks, to which his lover only responds with a smug smile of his own, leaning up, almost as if challenging him.

“Need I remind you, my tongue was in your _asshole_ just last night.”

“Fair enough.” Dorian cranes his neck, and the two share a soft greeting kiss. Ray’s lips pinch into a frown.

“Maker, it’s like something died in your mouth.” he grumbles, humor tinting his words, as he leans back up to meet his lover’s lips again. The mage lets out a soft sigh as Ray’s tongue glides lazily over pliant lips and slides between Dorian’s teeth, his knee shifting as no more than a suggestion.

A laugh bubbles out the corners of Dorian’s lips as the teasing little kisses drift to his jaw, down to his neck, stopping briefly to suck at a faded mark in the hollow of his throat suggestively. “Your stamina is nothing if not commendable.”

“It’s the effect you have on me.”

“Amatus.”

Ray sighs softly at the word susurrated into his hair, quiet, as if he isn’t even supposed to hear it. He feels himself smile affectionately against Dorian’s clavicle, and his hold tightens just a whisper. He raises his head back up, blue eyes boring into dagger-greys.

“There is something I wanted to tell you last night.”

Maker, there's that look again. The one that always, even after more than a year, makes Dorian’s heart feel uncomfortably tight. That unbridled adoration, the same as with which he looks at Andraste’s effigies, and reduces Dorian to but a speck of dust while raising him onto a pedestal; making him feel like the only thing on the Maker’s great green lands that matters, and so, so very insignificant at the same time.

“Alright, actually I’ve been meaning to say a lot of things.” Ray continues, almost nonchalant, with no more than a hint of hesitancy. “You know... You could have left anytime, but you still chose to stand by me. Even when... things got bad.”

Dorian can’t help but huff out a laugh at that - _why of course, leave it up to the Inquisitor to sum up the events of what could have easily been two of Thedas’ most chaotic years with an elegant ‘things got bad’_ -, but Ray seems determined to not let it distract him.

“Ever since Redcliffe... You’ve pulled me through, and I won’t for one moment pretend I made _that_ easy for you. But even with all my tantrums, my stupidity, you’ve been here- as my colleague, my friend, my lover. Dorian, you know I’m not good at this sort of thing--”

“Oh, do tell.”

“--but I could not have done this without you, and I thank you. From the bottom of my heart.” The marked hand caresses Dorian’s cheek in tune with the soft euphony of magic singing between them, and his smile, that stupid, handsome smile turns sheepish. “Although that probably doesn’t mean much, given that you already have my heart. Which also reminds me, I love you. More than I can say.”

Now there’s something to add to the Inquisitor’s long lost of achievements, Dorian thinks- almost reducing a grown-ass man to tears with words alone might not be a feat as remarkable as bringing to heel not just one, but two gods (and counting), but nonetheless, Dorian has to admit, it is commendable.

He swallows once to get rid of what feels like a mouthful of cotton under his tongue, and he silently vows to burn the whole stinking castle down if he does, indeed, cry.

“How many times have you rehearsed this little speech of yours?” he chooses to say instead, and Ray gives an embarrassed little laugh. (One that does _not_ help the tightness of Dorian's heart. At all.)

“A good handful of times.” Ray confesses “I had an eager practice partner.”

“Let me guess- Varric? It’s just syrupy enough for him.”

“Hey, no shitting on my most heartfelt confession, Serah Cynic.”

Dorian shifts himself into a sitting position, and Ray lets himself slip lower on his chest, cheek now squished right above the mage’s heart; he enjoys the insistent yet calm thumping as gentle hands trace the lines of the tattoo curling around his eye.

“Are you going to be performing it to all the other members of your... _entourage_ as well?” Dorian asks, voice soft. His lover merely hums and lets his eyes slide shut for a second.

“Eh, they haven’t had to deal with me half as much as you did, and as you will--” he peeks up through his lashes. “ _If_ you will, that is. After.”

_Dreadful thing, after._

“I'm scandalized. Amatus, are you perchance unsure if I wish to continue our relationship?”

“Is it presumptuous of me to think you do?”

Dorian’s eyes narrow in a warm, open smile, his voice barely wavers. “Very much so.”

“My ears might be deceiving me, but that wasn’t a no.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

The two lay silently that way, tangled up in one another, as the bells outside ring one, two, eight times- Ray pushes himself back up on his hands with a longer, more pained grunt than such an action would warrant. “Josephine is expecting me in the war room in about an hour.” he says, lips curled into a lazy smile. “Wanna roll around till then?”

“Just come here, you oaf.” Dorian rolls his eyes as the other man obediently falls back down on him, weight comfortable and warm on top of his chest- his temple just as the right place to for Dorian's lips to press against, and he muffles a few words against the skin. “I love you, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> I have [a tumblr](http://www.weresquirrel.tumblr.com) too!
> 
> I wonder how many times I can write these two lazing around in bed in the morning without anyone calling me out for it. It's hands down my favorite fluffy scenario.
> 
> I tried writing this only referring to my Inquisitor as "Trevelyan" or "the Inquisitor", but it just... didn't feel right. Sorry to those who prefer that kind of vagueness. ;w; His appearance is still kept vague, but in case anyone is interested, [here's a photoset of him. Looking confused.](http://weresquirrel.tumblr.com/post/127853512036/blows-kiss-to-saltland-for-the-anons-bonus-tfw)


End file.
